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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29268927">They Call It Night (and I Call It Mine)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/staywiththething/pseuds/staywiththething'>staywiththething</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Outlast (Video Games)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Altered Mental States, Bride Waylon, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Mental Instability, Mental Institutions, Mount Massive Asylum, Mount Massive Asylum Patient Waylon, Prison Cook Frank, Role Reversal, Schizophrenia, Security Guard Chris, Security Guard Eddie, Slow Burn, eventually, patience folks</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 14:02:41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>12,445</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29268927</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/staywiththething/pseuds/staywiththething</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“You horrify me. But at the same time, I horrify myself. We are horrible.” - Hélène Cixous, “The Perjured City”</p><p>Eddie Gluskin is a security guard for Mount Massive Asylum's Prison Block. Eddie believes himself to be a bad man. Eddie is good at his job. Eddie hates his job.<br/>Until a new patient arrives and a new position in the Underground Lab opens up. He'd be a fool to pass up such an opportunity, especially since the new inmate is just so fascinating to him, even if he can't exactly figure out why.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eddie Gluskin/Waylon Park</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>61</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>142</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Prologue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Look,” said Campbell, tapping the ash off the end of his cigarette. Eddie was slow to the order, turning his head and expecting very little.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was late afternoon in Autumn, when the sun sets at five and disappears entirely by six. It was half five now and everything was cold and golden, illuminating the shiny bonnets of the cars parked out front. They were not far from the main entrance, standing to the side of the large steps leading up and inside. Eddie had hoped he could take his break here alone, instead, he wound up inhaling Campbell and Daniel’s smoke rather than the fresh air he had been craving during his time over in the Prison Block. He was just about to head back inside, when Campbell had spoken up and he complied to see what his coworker was looking at:</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A metal van pulled into the driveway and circled the fountain out front. Its windows were heavily tinted and there was no logo or title stamped on its side to indicate where it had come from, but such is often the case with the things that come here. Unmarked and undetected, kept unassuming for reasons it isn’t best to consider. Secrets containing worser secrets.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you reckon it is? New patient?” piped up Daniels, pushing himself off from the wall he had been leaning against.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Most likely,” said Campbell, taking another drag from his cigarette. “Shit, I didn’t know we were meant to be getting a new one today. Any ideas where they’d put ‘im?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Depends on what he did to get himself sent here,” Daniels reasoned. “If he’s violent they’ll stuff him in the Prison Block. No idea why they’d do that, though. Place is crowded enough as is. Fucking powderkeg.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you know about any of this, Gluskin?” sniffed Campbell. “You’re in Prison Block, ain’t ya? Think this one might be for your department?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie, not in the proclivity of conversing with many, if any, of the people he works with merely shrugged. “If he’s for Prison Block I never got told about it,” he muttered, eyes trained ahead on the black van pulling up closer to the entrance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s nothing new,” said Daniels, spitting on the ground. “They don’t give us a word of notice around here for anything. What kind of security company doesn’t trust their own security division?” Daniels is based in what’s called ‘Front Security’, in that he shares a shift with five other men and operates the small booth at the base of the mountain, checking IDs and pushing a singular button that lifts the heavy neon-striped bar and allows all the cars inside and out. Daniels has often made it known that he feels like his talents are being wasted, but he’s never asked to be moved to any other department, and why would he? It’s decent money for doing fuck-all. Eddie doesn’t know why it takes five men to sit on their ass and push a button, or why they give it the gracious name of ‘Front Security’. Perhaps it's to make them feel like soldiers on the front lines, defending the castle from the battlements or something. In reality, it's just five men taking turns to sit in a box and jerk off in between all the exhaustive button-pressing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Campbell and Daniels might have said something as he thought all of this, or perhaps they hadn’t. Eddie doesn’t know, and he doesn’t care to know either. All he was really focused on was the van, slowly pulling to a perfect stop straight outside the doors, only a good forty or so feet from where they were standing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The moment the van stopped several doctors and darkly-dressed lab guards came flooding out the door and down the stairs. Eddie didn’t recognise any of them save for Walker, who was hard to miss anyhow given the sheer size of him, his lemon-yellow buzzcut like a drizzle of icing on top of his massive body. At the same time the people in the front of the van jumped out, another doctor and a guard from another facility judging from their different uniforms. All of them gathered at the back of the van, though Eddie couldn’t see what they were doing because of how the van had been parked. He took a few steps forward, curious but knowing to keep his distance. He heard the sound of the van’s back doors being unbolted and pulled open, then he heard voices ordering and debating and finally he heard walking, boots hurrying over gravel. And then Eddie caught a glimpse of the new patient.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A man. That was obvious, of course. Mount Massive stopped taking female patients —as well as female staff— almost a year ago. But he wasn’t surprised that the new patient was a man, he was surprised that he was </span>
  <em>
    <span>just</span>
  </em>
  <span> a man.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie’s only been here nine months, but in those nine months he has seen plenty of inmates come into Mount Massive. All of them suffering from a variety of mental ordeals and some having even committed several atrocities as a result. Some from prisons, others from mental health facilities, but all of them came in with an air of sickness about them. You can smell it on them if you concentrate; a mental rot, eating away at their brains, sucking at the sanity like soft ice cream. That’s what makes them such a valuable commodity to Murkoff. They need crazies. Crazies are cheap and dumb and require far less paperwork, and you don’t have to worry about them going insane from the ‘treatment’ because they’re already nuts. No one misses them either, and if any family members </span>
  <em>
    <span>do</span>
  </em>
  <span> work out where they are they don’t ever make it pass Daniels in his little booth on the frontlines. Eddie’s never really cared for the crazies. He’s not paid to. Does a farmer have to give a total shit about his cows if he’s just going to slaughter them for a profit later? Maybe, maybe not. At least the cows get to see the sky when they’re out in the field. At least they’re fed food that makes them taste better. Whatever. If he wanted to take care of these men, he’d have become a nurse, but even the nurses here don’t care. This is not a gentle profession.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This man, however, shuffling fearfully up the stairs of Mount Massive, didn’t seem like a psycho. He looked regular, a little meek and round in places, sure, but overall normal. Not physically small, yet there was an air of smallness about him. Even at this distance, Eddie could tell he’s not fit for a place like here, his feet didn’t crunch along the driveway like the guards’ and doctors’. Then again, no one who comes here is ‘right’ for it. He wasn’t a farm animal, he was just some person, a stranger you could pass on the street and not have to ever worry about. Eddie worried, though. Christ, the fear that was in him for the man walking up those stairs, it’d be enough to choke you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then the man turned his head and their eyes met. Terrified brown met wondrous blue; a muddy cliffside crumbling into an ocean. Eddie didn’t move, he hardly breathed. Neither did the man, the only thing pushing him forward were the net of arms ushering him along, his blond hair catching the sunlight, dazzling the guard. Neither of them spoke, but the man mouthed something, something anyone could have deciphered, but to Eddie it still felt personal, as if it was in a language neither of them knew they could speak until their eyes met:</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Help me</span>
  </em>
  <span>, the man was saying, speaking it right into Eddie’s eyes and making them sting from the intensity of it all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another second passed and then the man disappeared in a flurry of handcuffs and doctors. The people in the van climbed back into their vehicle and drove off soon after, and then Eddie was left alone to stare at the staircase, wondering why the air suddenly tasted so thin and how his heart was beating so fast.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Behind him, he heard Campbell. “A pretty one. That’s rare.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I give him a week,” said Daniels. “Wanna place a bet, Gluskin?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Eddie didn’t hang around to answer. He rolled down his shirt sleeves and walked away, his eyes open but his mind closed, playing projections of what he just witnessed on the walls of his skull.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Sweet Lamb</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The next week passed dreadfully and idly. Eddie tried his best to forget the new inmate and continued on in perfect monotony. There were, regrettably, still instances of weakness. Once or twice, in the quiet of the night in his company-assigned home in Leadville, as he struggled to fall asleep, he considered trying to find out more about that man. Nothing groundbreaking, of course, just a name or an age, something small but just enough to satisfy. If twisted Walker's arm he could probably use one of the underground computers to find something, but no, too risky. Just thinking about it harbours danger. He’s seen what knowledge does to people in his line. Guards who were there one shift and gone the next, appearing a day later shaved and bloodied in a cell during one of Eddie’s patrols. Questions kill, and the answers do even worse. He’s managed to keep shut about everything else, surely he can handle a little ignorance about this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So, instead, he spent his hours breaking up fights in the Recreational Yard and disposing of shivs and other prohibited items during cell searches. Admittedly, he has a mild fascination with what the inmates make in their spare time, most of it usually being weapons. Anything you can carve, you can sharpen. That same creativity is applied to toys, too. He’s seen grown men pass time with nothing more than an elastic band to play cat’s cradle with. If anything other than dirt grew in the Recreational Yard, he suspects he’d find them making daisy chains. During his lunch break he dully relayed all this to his colleague, Manera, who replied excitedly, “You should have been here a couple years ago. One patient stabbed another guy forty times with a knife he filed out of a comb. A comb! He had a backup too, made from a toothbrush - y’know, in case the comb snapped.” He said all this as he picked pieces of his lunch out of his teeth with a fingernail.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie chewed for another minute, only speaking once he swallowed. “Is that why everyone’s breath here smells like shit? Because they had to confiscate all the toothbrushes afterwards?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I guess,” Frank chuckled. “Might be why they shave their heads too, so no one can ask for  a comb.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think it’s more of an identity-thing,” came Chris Walker’s voice. Eddie looked aside to see the large guard grinning down at them, his lunch tray gripped between his paws like a wafer. Frank shifted aside and made room for the man, smiling back as the two of them rubbed wildly different sized elbows. “Oh, yeah?” spurred the cook to the underground guard. “How come?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, it’s like freedom of expression, right? You take away a guy’s hair on the outside, you take away a bit of him on the inside, too. It’s all about conformity, I reckon.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Powerful,” Frank smirked, turning his head. “You got anything to add, Eds?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hair, no hair, who gives a shit,” bit Eddie. “Doesn’t make any of them less fuck-ugly to look at.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Frank rolled his eyes, stirring his spork through his soy yoghurt and granola. “So eloquent.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The three of them ate in silence for a while, nothing but the dead ambiance of the staff cafeteria surrounding them. Once Eddie finished his lunch (an apple and a BLT composed of leftovers from his morning breakfast), he took a paper napkin and dusted the remaining crumbs into the brown paper bag he brought his food in, then rolling and folding it into a small square that he could later throw into the trash on his way out. Frank watched all this go down with dedicated intrigue, like how a child might take an interest in a dead squirrel or watch a woman undress by her bedroom window, not knowing why he was interested but knowing what he was watching was certainly interesting. Eddie sensed his observing might be followed up with some stupid exclamation. And, sure enough—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I swear you eat the same thing every day. I swear. Don’t you ever get tired of it? I swear I’d go mad if I ate the same thing every day.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Would you, now?” he muttered in response, sipping his stale cafeteria coffee.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m just sayin’. It’s odd. Don’t you ever wanna shake it up?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If by ‘shake it up’ you mean try whatever canned crap they make in the kitchens, then no.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not all bad, Eddie,” said Walker, a sunny expression on his big face. “Every Friday and second Wednesday there’s apple pie.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pass.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It wouldn’t kill you to expand your palette,” shrugged Frank. “Cooking is always about taking risks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Perhaps that’s why they only trust you to make food for the inmates, then. It would take a maniac to enjoy your cooking,” said Eddie. Walker snorted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I </span>
  <em>
    <span>wish</span>
  </em>
  <span> I was allowed to cook,” sighed Frank, using his reusable spork to scratch his head through his hairnet. “The only stuff they give us to prepare is just powder mixed with milk and water. It’s all the same colour, too. Doesn’t matter if you’re making mash potato or custard, it’s all the same shade of cat sick. And there sure as hell aren’t any veggie options. Not a scrap of real nutrition to be found.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie considered making some smart remark about how, in this building, nutritional value is hardly on Murkoff’s top list of patient priorities. They melt brains for profit, for god’s sake. Who cares if they’re vitamin deficient? Rather than say all of this, however, he just took another bitter sip of his coffee.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not </span>
  <em>
    <span>all</span>
  </em>
  <span> the patients eat like that, though, Frank,” chirped Walker. “The ones downstairs, for example.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, well, of course,” sniffed Frank. “But I don’t get to cook for them, do I?” he then paused, frowning. “Matter of fact, I don’t know </span>
  <em>
    <span>who</span>
  </em>
  <span> cooks for them. Could be that they got some underground chef making all their meals. I bet they eat a lot of red meat down there. They have to, you see, as a substitute for the lack of sunlight. If it were me, I’d give them mushrooms, it’s far more humane. No need to kill any sweet lambs.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Walker scratched his chin. “I’ve never seen any chefs down there in my time, or lambs, but sometimes I have to carry the food to the patients after the doctors mix their meds into it. The food’s brighter, at least. Though, it looks more fake than it does healthy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What kind of meds?” asked Eddie, surprising the other two men. It wasn’t like him to be nosy, but ‘downstairs’ is the epicentre of gossip amongst staff on the upper blocks. While curiosity is a harmful trait here, in moderation it might not get you committed. Might.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Walker shrugged. “I don’t know. Mood stabilizers, I suppose. Mental medicine. The new guy gets the most, mind you. I’m telling you, the other day there were more pills in his curry than grains of rice.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve seen the new inmate?” said Eddie, trying not to appear too invested. He already knows Walker helped carry the man in, but he didn’t know there were other possible interactions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure did,” Walker smiled, like it was a point of pride. “Got closer to him than I am to you right now. Handed his tray through his slot, he was real polite about it. Said ‘thank-you’ and everything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So he’s downstairs?” said Frank, the question for Chris but his eyes on Eddie, examining.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yep,” Walker confirmed. “On the Morphogenic Program with the rest. I don’t think he’s built for it, though. Guy looks like he’s gonna fall apart whenever you so much as look at him. Not typical asylum-material.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Makes you wonder what he did to get him down there, huh?” posed Frank. “Got any theories, Eds?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie squinted at him and the bearded man grinned back, his mustard-yellow teeth shining. Eddie shrugged. “Not particularly. I don’t doubt he must have done something awful to earn a spot on the program, but that’s as far as my imagination goes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, but you gotta admit though, it </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> pretty odd,” Frank pursued, leaning back. “Normally newbies spend a little time on top to get acclimated to their </span>
  <em>
    <span>unfortunate</span>
  </em>
  <span> change in circumstance, right, Eds?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Normally.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But this one went straight down the gutter pipe.” For emphasis, he flattened his palm and slid it down an imaginary hill, whistling as he did. “Like a rat down a drain. Crazy, huh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not really.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Frank waved him away like a bad thought, elbowing Walker instead. “Wouldn’t you say it's crazy, Chris? You’re down there more than us, after all. Any clues as to what the guy did to get a first-class ticket down?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Beats me,” Walker confessed. “I only learnt the guy’s name after sneaking a peek at his program schedule while I was on desk duty. He’s so fresh they forgot to assign him a number for the first couple days.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, don’t leave us in suspense, Chris,” goaded Frank. “What’s his name?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Walker chewed his lip, considering the pros and cons of divulging such private information. Eventually, he gave way, hunching forward and Frank and Eddie (despite himself) leaned in with him, the guard’s eyes trained on Walker’s fat mouth as he said the words:</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Waylon Park.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>chapter 2 people! Hope you all liked it &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Astray</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>So he had a name. That was all he wanted, right? Something to call him, a few extra syllables to define him with other than simply ‘the new inmate’. Now he can continue his life without needing to know anything more. He was complete, his mind can seal over once more. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enough of a taste to satisfy. It should have been enough for him. It should have. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was like naming a stray. ‘Don’t name it, or you’ll get attached.’ That’s the warning. And while Eddie wasn’t the one to name him, he was still nevertheless attached. How can you be attached to someone who doesn’t even know you? But they do know each other, in a weird metaphysical way. His mind kept playing their first scene together, those lips mouthing those words. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Help me</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he needed more than a name and two words. So he went to the library.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lake County Public Library was his main source, and on the weekend he spent most of his time using the computers. Thankfully, the tech hadn’t been updated since the eighties, making them far less intimidating than the newer asylum computers. He was still nervous, though. In the shadow of Mount Massive, it was hard to shake the feeling he was alone, even on the outside. Half the asylum staff have houses in Leadville, rented out to them by Murkoff. It felt like living in a reenactment of a town, as though everyone else was following a script he hadn’t been given. Mannequins looking out the window. When he first arrived he (in a moment of slight anxiety) searched his entire house for cameras. The fact that he found none didn't soothe him; to him, it just meant he wasn't looking hard enough. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His first trip to the library was less than fruitful. As it turns out, there are several Waylon Parks, none of whom look anything like his Park. He tried being specific, throwing in words like ‘arrested’ or ‘incarcerated’ or ‘sentence’ into his search, hoping to shake something loose that would explain his transfer to Mount Massive. Nothing dropped. Murkoff is a billion-dollar corporation, capable of rewriting digital history for the sake of hiding one man, and Eddie is a technologically oblivious security guard who’s never even met his boss.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There were other library visits across the week, all equally as useless. His Waylon Park was as good as dead, only worse because if he was dead there’d at least be a record of it. He considered pressing Walker for more information, but he couldn’t trust the man to not rat him out. He wouldn’t blame Walker for doing so, mind you. Walker’s a total boy scout. He’d crack immediately under whatever pressure Eddie would apply.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Manera was out as well. Whilst his code of ethics are far more pliant than Walker’s (so long as animal-products aren’t involved), the man’s mouth is bigger than his brain and whatever operation Eddie would have him do would instantly become widespread news. Besides, it’s not like Frank is in a position to do any real snooping. He’s a prison cook with even less clearance than Eddie. All they’d have to do is threaten to fry a rabbit and Frank would confess to things that he hadn’t even done.</span>
</p><p><span>Out of his limited options, Eddie had exhausted all of them. He wasn’t a genius, but he wasn’t dumb, either. If he went down there himself, all it would take is one person to notice him and he’d be fired (or worse) for violating his authorisation level. Sense called for him to give up. Hundreds of lives inside Mount Massive have asked for help, screamed for it. And everytime he met their eyes and refused. Hell, if he ever did make it to Park, there’s no guarantee he’d help him either. But he’s </span><em><span>curious</span></em><span>, curious about Park in a way he’s never been before about anything else. Park was an intriguing force, pulling him in, making him sink into the fray. </span><em><span>Help</span></em> <em><span>me, </span></em><span>those lips had begged. They didn’t say anything about </span><em><span>how</span></em><span>.</span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So Eddie waited. He did what he did best and did nothing. Patience masking as inaction. He worked and went home and had his lunches with Manera and Walker in between, never once bringing up Park. He stopped visiting the library and took to shutting his thoughts down whenever someone so much as reared the topic of downstairs. He was better than deaf; he was ignorant. The whole time he had his head down, pretending to be blind. During his patrols through the Prison Block, he had his head bowed and his eyes on the floor, trying to see through the miles of concrete and imagine Park shivering in his cell. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Help me</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he imagined him pleading to the ceiling. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Wait for me</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Eddie willed back, not promising anything other than his arrival, not wanting either of them to get their hopes up.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Two months later and an opportunity came. It came in the forms of an eye and a fried chicken wing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re shitting me,” said Eddie during yet another lunch, staring at Walker in disbelief. Even Manera was stunned into silence</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m serious,” replied Chris. “Stephenson’s in hospital and everything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How, though?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know the full details,” Walker mumbled, picking at his food with his fork, the utensil so small in his hand it looked more like a toothpick. “I don’t work nights. I wasn’t there when it happened.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just tell us what you know,” pried Frank.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So Chris did. It wasn’t a very good story. It had the components of one, a struggle, a chicken wing, a gouged eye, but Chris was hardly an apt gossiper. The words tumbled from his mouth, so clunky and unassuming you’d think he was reading his taxes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Holy shit,” the cook whistled when he had finished. “And this all done by that Park guy, eh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Chris confirmed. “The security footage doesn’t show much, but it wasn’t hard to figure out who did it, what with only the two of them being in the room. Park finished his supper but wouldn’t give the tray back. Stephenson got into his cell to, y’know, </span>
  <em>
    <span>make</span>
  </em>
  <span> him give it back, and that’s when Park pounced.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“All that with just a chicken bone, though?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Apparently so. Turns out there there’s this real sharp bone in the wingtip. Park must’ve used it on Stephenson's eye.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s what they get for serving up meat,” Frank huffed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Chris grimaced down at his lunch tray. “Yeah, well, now that Stephenson’s out they're looking for a new guard to take his place.” He picked his head up, looking to Eddie like a three hundred pound puppy. “Want me to put your name in?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie remained indifferent. This was it, the perfect shot. There will never be another one, never. Stay fucking calm. He shrugged. “Depends. Is the pay good?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s a night shift, so I guess so. It’s all based downstairs, so it’s already up from whatever you’re getting working in the Prison Block.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What would I be doing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Same as me I suppose. Patrolling cells, helping transport patients, delivering food and assisting doctors. Basic stuff. Although, since you’re taking Stephenson’s spot you might be more based only around Park.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie pretended to think about it, finally sniffing. “Sure, put me down.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They ate and talked some more, moving on from talk of the deadly uses of chicken wings and Stephenson's eye to other more mundane topics until Walker got up to return to his shift, waving them farewell and promising Eddie he’d add his name to the list of potential replacements. Eddie thanked him and moved to leave himself when Frank suddenly spoke up:</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eds.” The bad nickname grabbed the guard’s attention, stopping him before he got up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Frank’s eyes glittered. There was suddenly a lull in the cafeteria, causing the cook to lower his voice even more. “You sure you know what you’re doing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The guard scoffed. “What’re you talking about? You mean the night job?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Frank raised his hands, fingers splayed out in surrender. “I’m just saying. Whilst it’s certainly warmer by the fire, you’re also more at risk of getting burned.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie rolled his eyes, finally rising from his seat. “I don’t have time for your hippie-hick shit, Frank. If you’ve got something to say, say it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“All’s I’m saying is, the Underground isn’t full of boneheads like it is up here,” said Frank, looking up at him. “Just don’t get too close.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie lifted an eyebrow. “Don’t get too close to what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anything. All of it. I’m not gonna pretend that I know what you’ve got going on, but I get these inclinations, y’know? Whatever you’re doing, just be damn smart about it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Inclinations,” Eddie muttered, turning around and heading to his own shift without so much as a ‘goodbye’ or a ‘thank-you’. Nevermind, Frank’s not one to hold grudges about manners, not that Eddie would care if he did. He was onto bigger things now. Worse, but bigger.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks for all the hype so far people! It's really encouraging to see that people wanna see this thing through &lt;:'3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Baste</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Go on in, Mr Gluskin,” called the secretary, gesturing to the door the second Eddie reached the hall. He had been beckoned to the Administration Block only a few minutes ago, graciously pulling him out of shower watch, which he was by no small part thankful for. Shower watches in a regular prison is one thing, but in an asylum where half the inmates all seem to have the same compulsive masturbation disorder (he has yet to discover if this is something they all carried with them separately before the asylum, or if there’s some unspoken code between inmates they learn upon arrival, like how monkeys naturally groom one another within their troops), shower duty is hardly a highlight. During his first month as a guard, Eddie tried more passive approaches to condition disruptive the especially patients, but some vulgarities are simply undeserving of such stoicism and thus need a more damning response. Fucking filthy freaks, you couldn’t have paid him to leave any faster for his interview, hence why when he made it to the Administration Block, his baton was still wet with shower water and blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nodded his thanks to the secretary and knocked on the large door they pointed him to. He hit his knuckles on a spot just below a gold nameplate nailed into the polished wood: </span>
</p><p>
  <span>JEREMY BLAIRE, Exec. V.P. of  Global Development</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His knocking was replied to with a call on the other side. “Yes!” Eddie took it as permission to enter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The office was grand in every sense of the word. It was grand in size, in decor, in atmosphere. There were bookshelves and certificates and oil paintings and photo frames of soirees and golf clubs. There were leather couches and mahogany tables and even an opened drinks globe in one corner boasting a collection of grossly aged and priced liquor. None of it impressed Eddie, however, especially the man who sat in the middle of it all, who grinned at him and spun around in his big fuck-off leather chair like a smarmy, narcissistic planet. It was the kind of grin people give when they want you to hit them, but know you won’t because you can’t. Eddie’s baton dripped blood and water onto the Persian rug at his feet, each small drop tarnishing its value at a rate of a thousand dollars by the tear. This made the guard feel a little better in the face of that shit-eating grin Blaire was wearing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blaire waved to him, “Sit down, Gluskin.” Gluskin sat down. Blaire sat upright in his seat, his desk so big it looked like a dining table.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hear you’re inquiring into the new night-shift opening,” said Blaire. Eddie couldn’t tell if it was a question or a statement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is there an opening?” he asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Perhaps. Perhaps not. It all depends on whether or not I think you’re fit for it,” said Blaire. “You are not the only contender, you know. Some of your competitors have been with us for nearly twice as long as you’ve been here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright.” He should be fighting harder, he knows. He needs to be close to Park, but his pride is too much in the way. He knows what Blaire wants him to do, he wants Eddie to smile and nod his head and say things like “Yes, sir,” or “Of course, sir” or worse, “Thank-you, sir”. Somewhere in the room a clock ticked expensively. Blaire narrowed his eyes before pulling a drawer out of his desk and retrieving a file, the writing stamped on the manilla tab reading ‘GLUSKIN. E., #0196’ Blaire opened it, seemingly at random, glossing a finger over the lines of fine, type-written text. Eddie’s never seen anyone use a type-writer here. “Says here you were a tailor before you came to Mount Massive.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Were you any good?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was. Still am. That’s why I first came here, actually. I heard you had a Vocational Block and thought it would help to have someone teach the inmates how to use the sewing machines.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blaire scoffed. “And when you were no doubt shocked to be told that the Vocational Block had been shut down three years ago and we had no use for a tailor, you did what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I applied instead as a security guard.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blaire’s finger danced over the letters of his file some more, as if the paper was one big piano key he was dragging out the note of. He flicked a page, making a sound of surprise, as if he found a dollar bill he had forgotten about in his pocket. “Do you suffer from schizophrenia, Mr Gluskin?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie shifted in his chair, a small moment of weakness. “I have it, but I don’t suffer from it. I’ve been medicated since I was twenty. I see a therapist in Denver twice a month.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s your prescription?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Typical antipsychotics.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blaire hummed, closing the file. “Do you have any family, Gluskin?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Only a few distant cousins.” None of which he’s spoken to in years; they probably all still resent him for not going to his uncle’s funeral. Fine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What about a wife? A girlfriend?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So if you’re given this job, there won’t be anybody wondering where you’ve gotten to? No one waiting by the window for your return?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you live in Leadville, in one of our rented houses, correct?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you like it there?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s a nice house.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That wasn’t an answer to my question.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie dug his nails into the armrests of his chair. “Yes, I do like it.” If you like living in what’s essentially a coffin with a taller ceiling, he thought.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good. We want you to be comfortable.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I appreciate it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course, if you work the night shift you won’t be spending much time in it. Make no mistake, the job is well compensated, but most men struggle with the hours.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sure I’ll be able to manage it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blaire leaned back into his seat, sharp black eyes never leaving Eddie’s cold blue ones. “Do you know what happened to the last guard, Stephenson?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Only the rumours.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell me them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’re quite ridiculous.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I won’t know that until you tell me them, now will I?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie sighed in one blunt exhale. “The other staff say an inmate gouged Stephenson’s eye out with a bone from a chicken wing he had for dinner.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blaire smirked. Eddie wanted to choke him. “That </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> ridiculous. What do you make of it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t make anything of it. It’s conspiratorial nonsense at best.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It doesn’t scare you at all?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you know the name of the patient who did it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don't know the names of any of the inmates. Only their numbers.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you know the patient’s number, then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. I only know the numbers of the prisoners held in the Prison Block.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blaire pursed his lips. “Well, if you took this job, you’d only be responsible for just the one patient. Do you think you can handle something like that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I warn you, it requires a level of intimacy that doesn’t come with the usual . . . methods that work on the upper levels. Less staff means plenty more responsibility. You’ll have a gun, of course, but we’d prefer if you refrain from using it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So Stephenson had a gun, and Park still managed to hospitalise him. Eddie was thrilled at the notion, the sick bastard. Blaire continued, “You’d be this patient’s guardian, in a way. Oh, no need to look so startled, Gluskin. You don’t have to spoon-feed him or anything, just keep him in line until sunrise and someone’ll take over for you. It’s the same standard policies as with Prison Block patients, of course - only refer to them by number and whatnot. You’re their watchman, not their friend. Still, there is a balance needed. Stephenson couldn’t make the right connection with his patient, hence why there’s now an opening. We need someone who can be firm without being oppressive. We need a supervisor, not a dictator. You’ll be handling a very fragile mind, Mr Gluskin. We can’t risk hiring someone who might break it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie considered several answers, eventually landing on, “I’m sure I can handle it. If I can thread a needle, I can be gentle when it’s required of me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The interview wound to a close soon after, Blaire seeing Eddie to the door when they were finished. “Good talk, Gluskin,” smiled Blaire, patting Eddie on the back a little too harshly. Eddie thought of the sound the exec’s spine would make if he were to snap it, the thought inspiring him to smile back as he exited Blaire’s office. Now all there was to was wait.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Interview down, now all we gotta do it hold our breath and see if Eddie's managed to 'charm' his way into the job &lt;:0 - see you all for the next one! &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. And, End</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>For three days he received no news from Blaire, or anyone else for that matter, about the status of the night shift. This affected the guard, though you’d be hard-pressed to tell by just looking at him. Though for all his resignation, Eddie couldn’t help but feel like he was being toyed with. Anxiety crept in, the possibility of things not going his way starting to cause panic. Perhaps the job has already been awarded to someone else and this is just Blaire’s way of keeping him suspended. And it was working, damnit. The thought of getting the job made him break out in invisible rashes, making him scratch his arms like a fevered addict, causing long red welts to rise along the skin. One night he became so tormented he drew blood, thin scarlet lines pressed into his flocked bedspread.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Between Prison patrols and thoughts of Waylon Park, he replayed the interview time and time again. Trying to think of ways he could have ‘won’, whatever that entails. He knows why Blaire asked the things he asked, making such a petty display of parading out his file and asking about his medical history and family; all things Eddie doubts he doesn’t already know. But Blaire wasn’t asking to know. He was asking to win. Eddie can pretend he won’t bend for Blaire as much as he wants, but they both know he’s already thoroughly under the exec’s thumb. All the staff are. Hell, Blaire’s probably under someone himself. The Murkoff chain of command is a ladder that wasn’t made to be climbed. It’s a fast-moving train with nothing connecting the cars. If you want out, you have to jump.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie didn’t mind having a boss, not really. Everyone has one, and if they don’t they build a church and make up one. What he minded was being inferior. Which is perhaps why he found Park so interesting. He wanted to know the man who could take someone’s eye out with only a wingtip. How do you bottle that kind of storm?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Three days of radio silence. A Friday and a weekend composed of sitting by the landline with his knee bouncing like a broken morse code machine, tapping gibberish into the floor. On Saturday he travelled to see his therapist, Maria Zeiguer. She wasn’t his favourite in his long line of counsellors (he has a ‘catch and release’ technique when it came to therapists: if he says anything that gets them scribbling in their obnoxious leatherbound notebooks, he knows he’s said too much and that it's time to move on) but they got along sweetly enough. She’s Jewish, like his grandmother was, though he doesn’t know much of the practice. His mother raised him Catholic; causing several disputes between his mother and grandmother, as you can imagine. Eddie didn’t really care who he was told to pray to, none of them answered anyway. They all left him alone, they didn’t stop what happened to him, no matter how much he begged the dark or cried to the sky. It wasn’t like he was asking for a pony or a race car, just for the pain to stop. What kind of god doesn’t even answer the simple prayers of a </span>
  <em>
    <span>child</span>
  </em>
  <span>— </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His leg still bounced, even when he was a hundred miles from the mountain his mind stayed downstairs. Zeiguer noticed his leg, because it was obvious, and because he pays her to, she pointed it out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You seem anxious, Eddie.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie just grunted, looking at a small watercolour of a flat sand beach his therapist had framed on her wall. Colorado is landlocked; does she have it to remind her of the existence of beaches? “Eddie,” she said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How’re things at work? Last time we spoke you said you were feeling unmotivated.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Things are fine.” He never said ‘unmotivated’, he said he was ‘fucking bored’, but Zeiguer has a way of smoothing the rough of his language. He took his eyes off the watercolour, brushed some dust off his lap and looked instead at his therapist’s kitten heels. “On Thursday I had a job interview for a new position. Night work. I’d still be working for the asylum, of course, just a different division. Nothing huge, just a change.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That sounds productive. It’s good that you’re trying to elevate yourself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie scoffed. It was an insulting sound, but Zeiguer took no visible offence. “It’s hardly a promotion. I’d be working in the basement for a few pennies more than what I’m already getting.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you don’t enjoy the work, then why apply for it at all?” Zeiguer asked, tapping her biro against the blank page of her open notebook.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I guess I figured I’d be a good fit for it. It’d be more personal. I won’t be stopping nutjobs from smearing their shit on the walls anymore. I’d just be responsible for one inmate.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sounds intimate.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is.” He licked his lips, his throat suddenly dry. “I’d be a ‘guardian’ of sorts. Taking them from A to B, supervising them, making sure they don’t dribble on themselves at supper, that kind of monotonous crap.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And did you choose this role specifically because you were attracted to the intimacy overseeing someone specific comes with?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Boom. Ten minutes in and she was already finding a way to make it about his fucking childhood. If only she knew the real reason he was so hung up on this job. She’d probably just put him on heavier meds. It’s like he’s in his own mental institution, but unlike the inmates at Mount Massive he has to pay for this shit. He shrugged. “Maybe.” Zeiguer scratched something into her notebook. The session didn’t progress much further from then on.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When it came for Monday, he had reached something of a breaking point. That whole Monday was spent in silence, Eddie instead relying on his baton, beating the same anxious morse code into the bodies of any unlucky soul that irritated him. F-U-C-K-Y-O-U. A bad coping mechanism, sure, but he was a bad man. No amount of meds and therapy can completely remedy you from being an asshole, only make you aware of when you’re</span>
  <em>
    <span> behaving</span>
  </em>
  <span> like one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t until that same Monday night, when his furious time awake turned into furious time asleep, that he was later brought furiously back to the waking world (2 AM, to be exact) with a phone call. He arose and picked up. On the other line was a voice he didn’t know.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This Gluskin? Staff number 0196?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.” He stretched as he listened. Going to bed upset always gave him muscle problems.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re needed down in the Underground Lab. Patient 2536 requires immediate observation.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Observation?” He echoed, still half-asleep and vulnerable to reality. “Observe what? You just want me to look at him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s fresh from the Engine and we need someone to monitor him in case of side effects while we run other tests. Be here in fifteen minutes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s a thirty-minute drive.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Twenty minutes, then.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The call ended before he could ask anything else. It was as much a confirmation that he was hired that he was ever going to get. There was no time for a shower or cologne or second thoughts. As he readied himself, thoughts swirling around him like wind, he lingered briefly on the strange advice Frank had given him; talk of being burned just to be warm, or whatever. There is, however, some truth to it, he’ll admit. He’s closer to Park now, but that comes with closer scrutiny. The staff count for downstairs is low for a reason, and it isn’t because of underfunding. It’s because, like with the inmates, they need certain minds. Soft skulls, easily stirred. Underlings to work underground, like Walker, blind of themselves but highly observant of others. Blaire said he’d be paid to watch Park, he didn’t mention who he’s paying to watch Eddie.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was out the door in four of the twenty minutes he left had to arrive. Thankfully, there’s no traffic in Leadville at the best of times, so gunning it up the mountain to the asylum came of little consequence. The roads twisted like intestines, the tires of his pickup truck screeching with every turn, the dark trees watching him on either side of the road like shadows spectating a marathon, their branches shaking in applause. Up and up and up the mountain, towards his prize. His prisoner. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Wait</span>
  </em>
  <span> he begged the road. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Not long now</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Downstairs was a maze. Cold and eternal, the fluorescent lights above connecting it all like the segments of a spine. “Patient 2536?” he said to the sole operator at the first desk he came upon. Downstairs guards wear a uniform a few shades darker than those upstairs, the deeper blue like that of a thick, starless night sky. Eddie’s only in his regular Prison Block uniform, his shirt a pale daylight blue. He sticks out like a silver dollar in a tub of tar. The guard behind the desk looked him over, puncturing their keyboard until finally nodding and slid him his new pass and a ring of variously sized keys. “Engine-cell 1466. You got a gun?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” he replied, clipping the ring to one of his belt loops and dropping his pass into his breast pocket. He had left his baton in the backseat of his truck. He didn’t want the threat of violence to impede whatever it was he was meant to develop with Park. Not many good first impressions involve batons.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The guard grunted. “‘Spose it won’t be bad to let you go without one for now. 2536 is already locked up and halfway down. If he does anything that needs a doctor to fix, there’s an emergency button by the door. Come back for your gun tomorrow.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will do. Where’s cell 1466?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The guard told him and he was off. It was like a magnetic pull, an elastic snap. Electric pulsed in the air, though that might have all been the Engine’s doing. The hallway seemed to constrict and widen in places, as if digesting him, urging him further down into its mountainous belly. His footsteps thumped along the floor, or perhaps it was his heart just beating in his ears. Everything was so bright and quiet, like the atmosphere after a horrific accident. A car crash kind of energy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually, after making it through what felt like a hundred doors with a hundred locks and scanners, he finally made it to Park’s cell. He pushed the last key on his ring into the lock, jerking it left until there came a giant mechanical </span>
  <em>
    <span>clunk</span>
  </em>
  <span> to signal its unlocking. Eddie licked his lips, the freezing air pouring out of the vents making them crack. Door open, he entered and finally arrived. The wait was over.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Sorry for the wait people, uni's been a mess and my motivation has been diverted into a million different projects. Slowly but surely getting back into the swing of things though, so hopefully things should pick back up in due time!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Murk</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Park’s cell looked like something out of a space movie. White light and polished metal, clinical and crushing as if someone had been tasked to build a prison within a hospital. No bars or slotted iron doors to peer through, instead there was just a giant screen of glass, about four inches thick that stretched from the floor to the low ceiling, like a museum exhibit, a door —like the trap of a garbage chute— for food was bolted to the side of the glass. Inside there was sparse, cold-looking furniture and a door, presumably for transporting the inmate in and out when the Engine called. Cameras occupied every corner inside the cell and out of it, their big black cyclops lenses watching everything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Amongst it all, like a frozen planet surrounded by shrapnel, was Park. Eddie had expected him to be shaven, smooth and susceptible like the rest. He was met with the opposite. His hair was longer, no more a soft blond, his natural roots sprouting out from his head like upturned soil. He must have been bleaching it then, the guard thought, not knowing what to make of this new knowledge. The inmate was scruffier, too, a shadow covering his jaw that Eddie assumed was as itchy to have as it was itchy to look at. His skin had turned sour, grey under the sharp light above and hanging over his bones like a dirty cloth. When Eddie first saw him, and thought of him ever since, he had perceived him as unassuming, quiet, Normal to the point of insignificance. Now he was worse than insignificant. He didn’t look meek, he looked dead. Exposed in the way a fresh corpse is. That same fear Eddie first felt when their eyes met returned, dousing him in one big, cold wave.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Park was sitting on his bed (if you call it a bed, in reality it was more like a plank with a sheet thrown over it) when Eddie entered. He lifted his head to the guard, staring out with brown eyes like wells. “Are you the new one?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had a deep voice that betrayed his haggard body, like the low chime a wine glass makes when you run your finger around it. It wavered in places, but the bass was there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie nodded, straightening himself. Park looked down at his hands, his fingers knotted in his lap. “What happened to the other one?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s in hospital,” Eddie answered. He stood rigidly by the door, pinning his hands behind his back to avoid thinking about how much they were sweating.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Park made a light huffing sound that contained neither amusement nor regret. “He deserved it, you know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure.” He had never known Stephenson before the incident, but general word was that he was a trigger-happy ass that was more or less asking for what happened to him. Just another foolish head gobbled up by the Underground Lab. Hardly a loss.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Park looked to him again, his bleak eyes narrowing. Does he even recognise Eddie? He tried to picture him mouthing ‘help me’ with that sad mouth but it didn’t look right, the words meant too much, were too heavy for Park’s flat tongue. The guard cleared his throat, “How’d you get him away from his gun?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The inmate lifted a thin eyebrow. It seemed neither of them were expecting each other. “It was the first thing I reached for when he came in to beat me. Prick’s a showboat, was so caught up in just pointing it at me that he didn’t know what to do when I grabbed it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why didn’t you just use the gun for yourself?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A shrug. “He had been asking for more for a while. I threw it out of the way, then got to work.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“With just the chicken bone,” Eddie completed. No need to relay the story to the legend himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Park nodded, watery eyes shining. “Yep.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a rough silence. Eddie stepped nearer to the glass, the space opposite the cell enough to fit fifty people. He folded his arms across his chest. “You gonna try anything like that with me if I get in there?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think I’ll be getting chicken wings for dinner anymore, if that’s what you’re worried about.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie’s mouth bunched up into a smile. Park didn’t return it. “Good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Besides,” the inmate went on, “they told me you’d be different.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did they, now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A shrug. “I’m hoping for the best.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, then so shall I.” He dared another step towards the glass, stopping when Park bristled, eyeing the guard’s boots apprehensively</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You got a name?” the inmate asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did your previous guard give his?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. And I can assure you, I wouldn’t have done anything differently if I knew his name.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>There is a balance needed</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Eddie remembered Blaire saying. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stephenson couldn’t make the right connection . . . You’ll be handling a very fragile mind, Mr Gluskin. We can’t risk hiring someone who might break it.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “Can I know yours, in exchange?” He wants to hear him say it, wants to know how it sounds in the real Waylon Park’s mouth, rather than whatever flimsy recreation he speaks to his bedroom ceiling at night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The inmate clucked. “I asked first.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m your superior.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not by my say-so, you are.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It doesn’t matter what you say, it’s fact.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You wanna call down your boss and ask for a second opinion? But that wouldn’t be very ‘superior’ of you if you did, though, would it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie could only laugh, the short bark of breath surprising them both. Park stared at him expectantly. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Come on</span>
  </em>
  <span>, those eyes beckoned. </span>
  <em>
    <span>What do you have to lose? Who am I going to tell?</span>
  </em>
  <span> He didn’t doubt that the rooms were bugged, but he’s here to watch over his inmate and earn his trust, and he can’t do that in silence. And there are no rules prohibiting casual conversation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eddie,” he relented. Park rolled his shoulders, getting comfortable. The grey in his skin seemed to warm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hi, Eddie. I’m Waylon Park. You got a last name to go with all that, Eddie?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gluskin.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is that, Polish? Russian?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s mine.” Truth is, he had no clue. It was his mother’s maiden name, he knew that much; he’d sooner have no name at all than keep his father’s. Beyond that, though, he knew very little. He tries to know as little about his heritage as possible. Family is a worthless topic to him, full of bad bonds and ugly secrets. Rotten blood that stains everything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Park shrugged again. “Just curious. Park is like the ‘Smith’ of Korean surnames, not very inspiring.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Waylon’s nice, though,” he replied, not thinking before he said it. Then, to make it worse. “It has a nice sound,” he added, acting as though he hadn’t spent the past however many weeks muttering it to himself like a madman. It was like another form of medication for him, the small word like a tiny pill he could hide under his tongue and digest whenever needed. If just a name could do that, imagine what a conversation could do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks,” Park frowned, treating the compliment like a bad meal he was too polite to stop eating. Eddie shifted his weight from foot to foot. Park saved them, though, forgiving all uncomfort and quickly moving on. “Any idea what we’re doing here, Eddie?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You mean philosophically or physically? Because if it’s philosophically I’m going to need to wait until it’s daylight again.” Humour; not his forte but he can at least try.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Park’s eyes widened; deep ditches encircled in seafoam. “It’s night right now, then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He recalled the time his alarm clock beeped before he left the house a little under an hour ago. “Should be nearing three by now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In the morning?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie nodded. Park groaned. “Shit, I don’t even know the time of day anymore. I can’t tell if I’ve been down here for weeks or years. But that’s why you’re here, I guess. To make sure I stay loopy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie could very easily tell him that he’s been here for approximately two and a half months, but he’s already given him his name and needs ammunition for future interactions. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You’re handling a very fragile mind, Mr Gluskin</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He can’t risk ruining him, not when they just got together. He thought about Doctor Zeiguer’s beach watercolour. Perhaps he could suggest to Blaire that they put similar pieces in the underground cells, pallid renditions of daylight over a forest scene or a faceless family shot for them to project onto. They could even paint it all themselves, like a kind of art therapy. It’d be the most actual psychological help these poor bastards would ever get down here. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually, he realised Park was waiting for a response and clumsily, he gave one. “I’m not here to make you anything other than safe, 2536.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Park suddenly glared at him, his thin shape sharpening under his uniform. “Safe? Safe from what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yourself, I imagine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A snort. “Myself, right. Because </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m</span>
  </em>
  <span> the ill one. Right.” There was some muttering Eddie couldn’t decipher, like bubbles in a pot as it grows to a boil, then, “This isn’t safe, you know, this is . . . I don’t think there’s even an accurate enough word for how fucked-up this is. It’s definitely not fucking safe.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Language, 2536” the guard warned, hand instinctively twitching for a baton that wasn’t at his hip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shut-up. You know my name, use it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“25—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shut-up. Shit, you at least must know that this is fucked, right?” the inmate’s voice was picking up momentum. “Like, is the pay really that good? Hey, tell me, how many hours a day do you spend asleep, because I only get an hour, if I’m lucky. Or I think it’s an hour. I wouldn’t know because they keep sending assholes like you down to keep me up and hold me down while more people jam needles in my neck. It’s exhausting. I’m exhausted. I just want to sleep, but you’re here.” The inmate swayed, all those words needing so much breath, it took a lot out of him. Eddie was silent, licking his lips and tasting ozone. This isn’t the normal man pleading for quiet mercy in the afternoon sun. He’s too ill, too loud, too much in the dark. Be it because of his ‘treatment’ or a basic need to survive, Park had hardened. Spite and fatigue covered him like leeches, sucking all the life out of him. Eddie should be beating him into the floor for what he said, and he does want to, make no mistake. There’s red in his brain, black in his blood, aggression and adrenaline pumping throughout. A bad man wanting to do bad things; no one would hate him for it. Except Park. Except himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sighing, he went over to a wall and leaned against it, sliding down until he was sitting against it, too. He looked over to Park, who was looking at him as well, the glass so thick between them it blurred him slightly, like a reflection in a spoon. “Kick, scream, spit, swear - do whatever you want, I don’t care,” said Eddie to him. “You’re my inmate and I was called down to monitor you, that is all. But if you fall asleep, I’ll beat you. And I’m not a hothead like Stephenson, I’ll go in, make you bleed until you understand, and then I’ll go back out. Got it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Park continued to glare at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“2536, do you understand me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His inmate retreated to his bed, lying on his back with his right eye visible, so if Eddie ever saw it close he could tell when it was time to beat him. It was oddly accommodating of him. The guard thought that’d be the end of it, until he heard a sound. In truth, the sound was words, a short string of them united in one quick killing hiss. The words were coming from Park.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>You were supposed to help</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nothing more was said from either of them for the next four hours, until finally, it reached the morning, which arrived with a new guard in tow, Eddie’s daylight counterpart. They swapped places without a word, Eddie not looking back as he left and only stopping when he reached his truck. The air outside contained sunrise and birdsong, Eddie swallowed as much as he could, his heart like a siren in his ears.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>hey hi and howdy people!!! Thank you for all of the amazing comments on the last chapter, seeing the love people have for this fic and the patience everyone's granting me has been so sweet to read &lt;:'3 hope this chapter has lived up to the wait!!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Maw</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Their first meeting was Monday night (or, to be factual about it, Tuesday morning). The rest of the week was a series of mostly silent, completely awkward and definitely difficult incidents that eventually culminated in Eddie beating Waylon Park on Friday night.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The first incident was on Tuesday, when the guard was still coming to terms with his new schedule and Park hadn’t looked at him in hours. The only sound passed between them were yawns, Eddie having the decency to hide his behind the back of his hand (“Close your mouth when you yawn, Edward,” his mother would frequently complain, usually when they were at church. “No one wants to see the back of your throat.”) while Park made a show of his, probably to prove his point from last night about getting little sleep. They were back in cell 1466, positioned on their respective sides, free and not free, when there came a buzzing from the door on Eddie’s side. New to this, he looked over to Park, who still had yet to so much as pick his head up from where he was hunched over his bed. His hand hovered over his gun; he had a gun now, a darker uniform, too. Answering the door, he was met with the sight of a tired-looking nurse. It was the first nurse Eddie had seen down here. Usually, it’s just doctors or guards, the nurses confined to the upper floors to administer lesser tasks. The nurse was holding a tray on which several small paper cups were balanced, their uniform a bright, stark toothpaste blue. They handed him one of the cups, it containing two pills, one a pale pink, the other a faint orange. “Make sure he takes them dry. Some of them say they need water and spit them down the sink,” they sighed, moving onto the next door without another word.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie shut the door and approached the glass, knocking on it. Park finally looked at him, his hair falling in shaggy triangles over his eyes. The man’s tired sight landed on the paper cup and he deflated, rising to his feet and shuffling to the food slot. The cup of pills was exchanged for nothing. Eddie watched Park closely. “You take those properly and there won’t be any need for me to come in.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Park remained mute. He took the cup and dropped both pills into his mouth like a shot. Eddie watched the man’s throat, waiting for the sight of his Adam’s apple to bob. When the tan throat remained still, the guard looked back to Park to meet the patient’s eyes. There was a flash of realisation before Park spat at the glass, a cloudy glob of spit and pills suddenly appearing. If it weren’t for the glass, it all would have landed on Eddie’s shirt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Silence. It was horror, really, but Eddie had yet to shout so for now it was just silence. He waited for the next move, a ploy, a </span>
  <em>
    <span>reason</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but Park remained still and staring. It wasn’t until he took a step back that the inmate suddenly plucked the pills from the glass and swallowed them, his throat constricting as he audibly swallowed them. Now Eddie was the one left staring while Park opened his mouth, stuck out his tongue, showed the absence pills and turned back to his bed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The second incident was on Wednesday. They were now both inside one of the Experimentation Rooms, Eddie by the door and Waylon strapped into a chair while scientists and doctors poked and prodded him like a lamb’s heart on a high school dissection table. For the last three hours Eddie wasn’t even allowed inside, apparently whatever they were showing on the myriad of screens inside was “too damaging” for fresh eyes. And from the look of Park, it didn’t seem very healthy for Engine veterans, either.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The screens were switched to dormant for now, the guard standing with his arms folded in a corner while the hazmatted staff conspired around their subject, their whisperings like TV static. The Experimentation Room reeked of sweat and electricity. His eyes never left the back of Park’s head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually, the poking ceased and one of the hazmats told him to take him away. Eddie approached the chair, untying the neck, wrists and ankle restraints and placing a hand on Park’s shoulder. Park was soaking, his uniform clinging to him like a rag, wetting Eddie’s palm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A light shove of Eddie’s hand on his shoulder. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Move</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Park did no such thing. Sighing, the guard went to hook his arms under Park’s armpits, but the inmate started to kick, backing him away. “Fuck off,” Park hissed. Eddie sneered and went for his neck, only for the inmate to scratch at him. There was snickering at the door, the scientists that still had yet to leave were watching the two squabble. Embarrassment sat in the pit of Eddie’s stomach like a lead ball. He grabbed Park by his jumpsuit collar and heaved him to his feet, the inmate retaliating by becoming a ragdoll, heavying his limbs until Eddie was left with no choice but to manhandle him. Park’s weight wasn’t any real issue to him; he’s dealt with far stronger men, and though Park was tall and had some mass to him, it didn’t compare. He twisted Park’s arms, using his own hands to cuff the inmate and kicking his boots against his bare feet to march him forward. They left to the sound of snide laughter and </span>
  <em>
    <span>rudeness</span>
  </em>
  <span>. The ball of lead in his stomach heated up, turning white-hot. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Breathe</span>
  </em>
  <span> his lineage of therapists told him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>In for seven, out for eleven</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
  <em>
    <span>One . . . two . . . three . . .</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He threw Park into his cell. When he returned to his proper side of the glass, the man was still lying on the floor, body rising and falling deftly like a sleeping dog. He paced while Park recovered, trying to cool the heat boiling away at his stomach lining. It didn’t go, though. It melted him for the rest of the week. Until Friday.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Friday, before the beating, was the final and most difficult incident. His radio burned with a message from the Engine Room, a voice on the other end crackling that 2536 was needed for the Morphogenic Engine and Eddie was to bring him immediately. The radio’s message was making him twitch. A sick fascination prickled the skin on his neck; it would be their first trip to the Engine room together. And, more importantly, Eddie would get his first sight of the Engine. Finally, a firsthand sight of the madness, right down to the root.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He approached the glass, observing his inmate. By this time he had become nocturnal, no longer irritated by the stinging white light of the Underground. His eyes were white and glossy as he peered at the man on the other side of the cell. Park had recently taken to sitting on the floor, trying some form of yoga. It wasn’t real yoga, though. It was more like what someone would think was yoga after watching a cheap TV commercial about it. A lot of arm stretching and back bending, as if the inmate was trying to fill up every corner in his cell. Right now he had his arms out, stretched parallel along the floor with his face tucked into the ground, his back curved like a smooth stone. Eddie knocked on the glass, stirring the inmate out from his self-made shell.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Time to go,” the guard said. Park stood up. Eddie made his way out of the room and into the small side corridor that lead into his cell, opening it and stepping into Park’s little world. He twirled his finger and the inmate turned, baring his wrists. As he cuffed him, Eddie heard the smaller man ask, “Any idea what time it is?” It was the longest sentence he’s said in four days.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s not for you to know, 2536,” Eddie replied curtly, snapping the cuffs shut. Answers to those kinds of questions were saved for a different person, not someone that spat out their pills and spoke so rudely. Over the week, as he came home as the sun rose and left as it sunk, Eddie realised that he wasn’t a saviour, or a protector, or whatever complex Zeiguer wanted to give him. Forget what Blaire had told him, he’s a guard, not a nanny. And Park wasn’t a man anymore, he was his inmate. They’re both too far away from the light of day to fake civility. He grabbed Park by the cuffs. “Let’s go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Say my name.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man looked over his shoulder. “Say my name, first. I’m tired of the numbers.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t have a name.” He tugged him again at his wrists, Park planted his feet more firmly, fighting but barely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes I do. You know it. I told you. I don’t know how many days ago, but I remember. I know yours, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie started to drag him to the door. “You don’t know anything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know some things,” was the defiant reply. “You had on a different uniform and no gun. I asked you about my old guard. I asked for your name, you gave it. I asked for the time, you gave it. Give it to me again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You were polite back then,” the guard argued. “You’re not being polite, now.” He pushed him through the door, dragging him down the hall and down the winding series of walls and doors towards the Engine. Park scoffed, “Is that what you care about? Manners? Seriously?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shut-up.” They passed some scientists who eyed them suspiciously. Eddie tried to keep his own sight ahead, trying to remember where the Engine Room was until it dawned on him that he didn't know. He’s never been, and the thought of asking anyone for directions filled him with an emasculating embarrassment. He slowed down, Park tripping in front of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was just their footsteps for a while. Combat boots and bare skin. The corridors never ended. When they came to a split, Eddie stilled. Quietly, he heard Park mutter. “Left.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They turned. “You’re welcome,” bit the inmate. Eddie just held his wrists tighter, until the cuffs threatened to break skin, shutting him up until the next turn. Another left this time, according to Park. “You sure you’re not just taking us upstairs to freedom?” said Eddie.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know where upstairs is. Take a right.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Soon they came to the double doors of the Engine Room where several other guards were situated. One of them asked if Eddie needed help carrying Park to his tank. Eddie declined. Another said roughly. “You’re meant to strip ‘em.” and before Eddie could say anything, the same guard came over and ripped Park’s uniform in half, tearing it clean off his body. On instinct, Eddie cast his eyes to the ceiling, before remembering where he was and looking back down at the half-naked man he now had before him. Eddie began to sorely miss the thin barrier of the uniform. Touching Park’s bare arm was somehow the most violating he’s felt in all his time working here. He’s used to beating nude men, sure, but not holding them, not guiding them. Not paying attention to how cold they are and the intensity of goosebumps on their skin. Eddie cleared the throat, nodded to another guard-shaped shadow and opened the door to usher themselves through.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Morphogenic Engine was a beast. Vast, metal, black and blue and horrific. Screens, dials, tubes, every piece not so much connected as it was crammed together, like an ant colony of machine parts. The tanks were huge empty snow globes, tubing coming out of them like spider’s legs. The Engine fizzled all around, the scent of ozone strongest here. There was an atmosphere of immense hunger.  Park started to struggle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Scared?” said Eddie. He hadn’t meant for it to sound so condescending. There was meant to be a soft ‘are you’ preceding it, but it got stuck on its way up his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The smaller man hissed, trying to worm his way out of Eddie’s grasp. They neared the globe, a nearby scientist prying it open until the sphere now resembled an open mouth, ready to be fed. In trying to keep the inmate upright, Eddie had him pressed closer against him, no one else able to hear what Park was whispering. “Please,” he pleaded. “That’s what you want to hear, right? You and your fucking manners? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Please</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t make this difficult,” was his response. “All week you’ve been nothing but a hindrance. Try something else.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m trying </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The scientist that had opened the globe now had his arms out for Park, in one hand gripping a large open tube that was the same dentistry glove blue as the rest. Park was fighting now, his body twitching and twisting, reacting on dire impulse. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Please</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” the inmate begged, somehow managing to twist his whole torso around enough to meet Eddie’s eyes. The guard was expecting fear to be in those eyes. There was none. It was rage. Magmatic, terrific rage. Park wasn’t shaking because he was scared, and the wavering in his voice wasn’t out of compassion. This was just the shore receding before the tsunami. Above them, something like thunder hollered, and then Park’s head was knocking against his jaw, the impact alone almost sending them both to the floor, the inmate screaming as they collided, “You were supposed to help!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then the band snapped. Eddie wrenched him out of the scientist’s reach and dropped him to the floor like a rock. He hunched down and beat the smaller man’s face in, fists meeting cheek and the brittle bone beneath. Blood emerged from Park’s mouth, first as a drizzle then as a spray. A drop landed on Eddie’s brow, no bigger than a freckle. It was hard to tell what sounds were Park gurgling through blood and what was the Engine’s rumbling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This sounds like art, but it wasn’t. Eddie had about ten seconds overall to do what he did. The first five were spent beating Park, the other five were spent fighting the two guards who were called to pull him away. But it was enough. Shit, it was enough. In the dark sparking glow of the Morphogenic Engine, Eddie bared his teeth at the men at his arms who hoisted him up and away from the inmate. Only when he was thrown out into the corridor did the fog finally begin to clear:</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He approached a window in the door, peering in to finish the show. It was like watching someone stuff a ragdoll into a cookie jar. Park was lifted and piled into his globe, wires were inserted and soon the lively inmate became a lead-headed prop.  Silhouettes wrote on clipboards and pressed buttons before retreating, leaving Park bent back and suspended like an inverted mass of . . . something.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie wasn’t allowed in. He prayed this wouldn’t mean a demotion; how could he possibly go back to shower watches in the Prison Block after this week? As the Engine fried and began to cook Park, a deep change occurred inside the guard. A new timeline was forming, stars had turned and a shift was happening. Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe Eddie was just finally starting to feel guilty. Either way, he knew what he was feeling was dangerous. This was worse than the previous obsession he once felt. This was bordering on </span>
  <em>
    <span>compassion</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With three guards watching his back, Eddie witnessed the torture of his prized inmate, the blood on his knuckles drying and tightening his skin, pulling his body taut. He ached, and ached, and watched.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>hey y'all, sorry for the wait! hope this chapter made up for it &lt;:3</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>tbh I was gonna wait a lil while longer to start a whole new project after finishing 'Infirmities', but fuckit; role-reversal time bb</p></blockquote></div></div>
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